


Blue Devils

by Diane_C



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diane_C/pseuds/Diane_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen and Killick care for Jack, who is injured and blue after an action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Devils

**Author's Note:**

> The opening lines in italics were written by Patrick O'Brian, and I borrowed them to launch this tale.

  
 

 

**Blue Devils**

  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
 _"Killick, good morning, and how is himself?"  
  
"Good morning, sir: passed a quiet night, and is as comfortable as can be expected_," said Killick, looking sullen.  
  
"And did you speak with him, tell?"  
  
"Not to say as spoke _with_ him, sir, but spoke _at_ him more like." Killick gave the coffee grinder several hostile turns, muttering, "Which I tried to make him eat a soft egg, didn't I, and his honour fakes to be sleeping. As if I wouldn't know when he's asleep or awake. Bloody great knock on the head's addled his brains. Made him bloody stupid it has, the great ox." He glanced up. "Which you'll not tell him I said that. Sir."  
  
Stephen bowed. "And this is your tray for him, I collect. Beaten egg: congealed. Buttered toast: untouched. Coffee... he took none?"  
  
"Not a single God-damned dainty sip, and the whole lot gone cold. Which it ain't even like he smelled it." One last savage crank of the handle. "But we'll see if a fresh pot don't rouse him. Oh, we'll see if it don't make him sit up and shout."  
  
Stephen replaced Jack's china cup in its saucer, having consumed the lukewarm contents. "Well, I can recommend neither shouting nor coffee for the captain today, Killick, but brew away, brew away. The pot will not go wanting."  
  
Stephen let himself into the captain's sleeping cabin with a physician's unhesitating authority, but quietly, quietly. "Jack," he murmured. "And do you feign sleep for me as well?"  
  
"Morning, Stephen."  
  
"Aye, it is.  ...Your pulse is calm, I find. Open your eyes, please. Hmm, just so. You may close. And how does your skull? Tender, is it?"  
  
"Tender is not perhaps the word."  
  
"Do you ache? Throb?  
  
"Hammers and anvils ain't in it." Jack winced and turned away from his touch.  
  
"Killick says you will not eat. It wounds him, I believe."  
  
"He wanted to spoon feed me. He's lucky I didn't break the tray over his head. Contumacious bastard, coming it the God-damned nursemaid."  
  
"Contumacious, now. A fine word."  
  
"Capital. Learned it from you."  
  
"And you use it correctly, I note."  
  
"Of course I use it correctly. Why wouldn't I use it correctly? Dear God, he's making more coffee out there. I can't abide the smell of it this morning, Stephen, why is that? Makes my stomach turn, though it's usually such a pleasure to me."  
  
"Your senses are a little astray, my dear, it's only to be expected. Show me your hand, now. No: your right hand, Jack, not your left. Do you play coy with me?"  
  
"I'm not playing anything," Jack mumbled, lifting his other hand from beneath the blanket. "I'm just stupid, scattered." He submitted to examination, looking away as the bandage was unwound. The hand was stiff and had swollen enormously; the deep gash across the palm and the splints of three fingers were gently probed.  
  
"Well? Tell me true, Doctor," Jack said with his first smile of the morning, a singularly false one, "shall I ever again hold a sword?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh yes. Yes, certainly, with the blessing, and your bow as well. Your violin will not fall silent. Jack, do you feel me pressing here?"  
  
"I do. Quite - ah - quite keenly."  
  
"Very good. And here?"  
  
Jack nodded, his mouth set.  
  
"Good. I am most gratified." Stephen absently tucked the bloody bandage in his pocket, pulling out a fresh one as though conjured. "Your pain is laudable, my dear," he said comfortably. "I would be more concerned were you to feel none."  
  
"I am so glad you approve."  
  
Stephen lifted an eyebrow at the Captain's tone and began in silence to re-wrap Jack's hand. "You seem out of sorts this morning," he said after a time, mildly.  
  
"Lord," sighed Jack. "I suppose I do. Ignore me, Stephen. You know how I get after an action, especially when I have to lay about like a damned cripple afterward. Makes me crabbed. Fractious."  
  
" _Fractious_ , indeed?"  
  
"Yes, fractious. What are you squinting at me for? Don't you know the word fractious?"  
  
"As it happens, I do know it. Hold still, please. I cannot bandage a fretful hand."  
  
"Fretful," muttered Jack. "Killick! I know you're hovering behind the door. I can smell you. Go away."  
  
"Was you wanting coffee, your honour?" called Killick.  
  
"No."  
  
"Fresh pot here if you need it, sir."  
  
"I said go away, damn your eyes. God-damned... hovering lurker."  
  
A belligerent muttering was heard, mostly indistinct but for a few phrases such as _pour it down the shit-hole_ and _serve him bloody right_. Then loudly, "Which I'm making you a nice ham sandwich!"  
  
"Do you hear his note of warning, laced with a hint of despair?" said Stephen with interest. "He threatens you with his ham sandwich. Your appetite, customarily of gross proportions, is a stabilising force for Killick, and its lack upsets his view of Divine order."  
  
"I don't give a fig for his view. If he brings me a sandwich I'll throw it out the scuttle."  
  
"Will you? And how is your aim with your left hand?"  
  
At this Jack turned his head to look at Stephen, a startled frown furrowing his brow: Pain and displeasure in equal measure, thought Dr Maturin.  
  
"Jack," Stephen said as he tied off the neat bandage, "forgive me. I speak from professional curiosity and personal concern, and upon my honour, I do not mean to offend."  
  
Jack said nothing; however, a harsh muffled cough from the other room, indicative of disapproval, managed to convey that Killick was offended on his captain's behalf.  
  
"Killick remains loyal despite your gustatory peculiarities," smiled Stephen. Jack did not smile back, and he continued, "My dear, you are normally of a sanguine temperament: this ill humour, this lingering anger, weighs upon you. I see it in the heaviness of your head, your mouth, your hand. There is more here than your usual post-battle distress, is there not? I fear young Keating's loss troubles you."  
  
Jack closed his eyes. "Any crewman's death troubles me. What would I be if it did not."  
  
"True. Sure. Yet, I fear, in this instance...."  
  
"I would like to sleep now, Stephen."  
  
"And so you shall, you shall. I recommend it. But will I tell you a thing or two before you pretend to fade away from me? Listen now. You were wounded before ever your boat was hit. Your head, your hand... do you even recall the blast?"  
  
"I recall it," murmured Jack, who remembered the noise, the green plunge and its sudden silence; surfacing, and Keating's thin cries amid the thunder of guns.  
  
"Do you, now? I hadn't thought you would."  
  
"I remember," said Jack, looking now into Stephen's face. "And Keating... he wasn't hurt, you know. He wasn't hurt, he just couldn't swim."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I did reach him. Stephen, the boy was in my grasp. I had him here, here, but I couldn't hold him and he slipped away."  
  
Dr Maturin took his patient's bandaged hand, lowered it and kept it still.  
  
"And damn them," said Jack, "they fished me out before I could find him. I could have found him."  
  
"Could you? My dear, I was there when they pulled you aboard. I do not think you were wholly conscious at that moment, but stunned. Had they left you, you might both have drowned; as it was, you lived to win the day. Jack," said Stephen, his head to one side, "can it be that you have never lost a soul you tried to save?"  
  
Jack Aubrey, easily moved in his weakness, could not reply at once, and Stephen politely looked away as he wiped his eyes, clumsily, left-handed.  
  
"It's a selfish sort of grief, I suppose," said Jack after a moment.  
  
"Oh, no. No, I could hardly name it so. Leastwise not without shameful hypocrisy."  
  
Jack looked thoughtfully at him. "Sometimes, Doctor, I forget the nature of your calling." Stephen waved a dismissive hand and bent to peer critically beneath the dressing above the captain's left eye.  
  
"It would be different," pondered Jack, "if Keating had been knocked on the head. But to simply drown... and with me an arm's length away. Lord, he was young."  
  
"So he was, too." Dr Maturin gently pressed the dressing back into place. "Now," he said, suddenly brisk, "you do not choose to eat, and I endorse this, though I should like to see you drink a tall glass of water or ale. Also, you expressed a desire for sleep, and I can assist you to that end, allaying your pain as well."  
  
"You're very good, Stephen, but no," Jack said, seeing the blue bottle emerge. "I don't care for it, it makes me slow and stupid."  
  
"Does it?" said Stephen primly. "Well, perhaps some constitutions..."  
  
"There's a ham sandwich here," shouted Killick without. "Which I toasted it with real cheddar," he added menacingly, "and it's done to a turn, it is."  
  
Jack closed his eyes wearily, but Stephen called back, "Bring it, Killick, together with a can of ale." He touched Jack's hand. "The beer is for you, the glorious sandwich for me. But we shan't tell Killick: it will please him to think you consumed it. You cannot fault the man's devotion."  
  
"Yes, I can."  
  
"Well, one could fault his bedside manner, I suppose."  
  
"One could, and one does. Officious ape. Braying ass. I think I could bear his solicitude, if he weren't so damned loud and loquacious."  
  
Dr Maturin frowned and laid his hand upon Aubrey's brow. "Do you feel feverish at all? Let me see your eyes again, let me see your tongue."  
  
"Here's our nice sandwich and beer," sang Killick, bursting in. "And I kept the coffee hot, sir, as I knew you would want it eventually. I'll hold the cup for you. You just lie still. We'll not spill a drop."  
  
At Jack's imploring glance, Stephen intercepted the tray. "Killick, you are heaven sent, but I'll see to the captain for now: he needs your services elsewhere. He... desires you will visit the prize and examine her stores, for he fairly yearns for a truffle pie for tonight's supper, don't you, Jack? Yes, a very large pie, with the truffles stewed in sherry and butter. See if our French guests' pantry can provide, will you? We mustn't allow our captain to waste away."  
  
"Truffles it is, sir," said Killick, glowing and fierce. "If I have to grow 'em myself. Was you wanting anything else, sir?"  
  
"No," said Jack, eyeing Stephen.  
  
"Roquefort," said Stephen, who had met the French captain and disliked him. "And champagne."  
  
"Aye, fungus, cheese, and fizz. You'll have your supper," Killick vowed to his captain, "just as you wish it, sir."  
  
"Thankee, Killick," said Jack. "You will, of course, observe decorum aboard the prize."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Be polite. All inquiries with my compliments."  
  
"Oh aye, sir."  
  
"Pirate," accused Jack, once Killick had gone.  
  
Stephen, who had embarked upon the sandwich and coffee, smiled and handed him his tankard of ale. "Drink, now, Jack," he said. "Then sleep, sleep."  
  
  
~ The End ~  
  
(The opening quote is from _Desolation Island_ , page 242, Norton paperback edition.)


End file.
